by Scott Baker
The thought struck me like a blow. Pilate. They were going to kill Pontius Pilate. They would ‘save our Lord’ by killing Pilate.
The sweat on my brow turned cold as it ran down my face. The implications began to branch out in my brain like ice crystallising in water. They were not here to kill Jesus, which was why it had not happened already – they were here to save him. They were here to kill the man who ultimately was responsible for putting Jesus to death. Pontius Pilate, the Governor of Jerusalem. And Barishnikov had been running towards Pilate’s house. If they were here to stop the crucifixion, they would have to do it before the trial just after dawn. Which meant—
I leaped from my hiding spot and bounded forward with new vigour. Delissio’s agents were still on the loose, and one question burned in me as I ran – who were they? How would they get close to the Governor?
I raced through the streets until I came to the tall columns of the Governor’s residence. I stopped outside the gate. There was already movement in the courtyard, and the guards were alert. I would have to get in another way.
The crowd was only a few hundred feet behind me and the guards who followed were being distracted by the mass of people pouring onto the streets to see what was happening. Then it occurred to me: I need not sneak at all. My nose had been broken, and my fingers were severed and bleeding, but my confidence was intact, as was the knowledge implanted in my mission. With that, I walked right up to the front gate of the Governor of Jerusalem.
I was met by a centurion who looked me up and down. ‘What do you want?’
‘I have an urgent message for the Governor,’ I replied with all the bravado I could muster.
‘The Governor is asleep. He doesn’t take visitors at this hour. Come back after breakfast.’
‘Tell Pilate that Caiaphas has arrested the Jew named Jesus,’ I turned and pointed down the road to where the mob from the trial appeared on cue from around a corner. ‘You see that tumult?’ I asked. ‘They are about to break down these gates and start screaming for the Governor. I suggest you let me see him first and explain what this is all about before he faces that angry mob.’
The man paused, unsure of what to do. Finally he said, ‘Wait here.’ He turned, leaving only one other guard at the gates. This second man had seen the crowd and shuffled nervously. A moment later, the first man returned and asked, ‘Who is it who wants an audience with the Governor?’
Who indeed? I thought. I had hoped to have bluffed my way through by now.
‘Listen to me. Tell Pilate that I know his wife has woken this night with nightmares. Tell him that the man she has dreamed of is being dragged to this house, and I am the only one who can prepare him for what is to come.’ The man looked at me suspiciously.
‘Tell him!’ I said in a commanding tone. It had been recorded that Pilate’s wife had awoken and warned him about her dream. I only hoped this was not one of the many embellishments sure to have taken place between the events and their chronicling.
The man disappeared as the crowd drew nearer, and by the time the centurion returned, they were only fifty feet from the gates. Uncomfortable, the centurion grew nervous when he looked beyond me at the approaching mob.
‘The Governor asks that you come,’ he said, making as if to lead me, but then uncertainly he faltered, pointing up the stairs.
‘Up there. He’s expecting you.’ The man ran back to the gates where the soldiers were demanding entrance to the courtyard.
Relieved and somewhat incredulous, I ran up the stairs, which led from the courtyard up to the balcony and doors in full view of the gates. Rather than knocking on the door, I darted off to the left behind the massive columns and searched for another way into the house. I figured that the living quarters would be too well guarded for the agents to make their move, and that they would wait until Pilate was called out into the open. I found a small stairwell that led up to the mezzanine level of the balcony, almost on the roof ringing the massive stone courtyard. The vantage point would provide me the best opportunity to discover the agents, but how would I tell who they were?
I made it to the roof and looked down upon the scene. It was more enormous than I could have imagined. There were ten times the number of people I had expected, and the crowd was much more heated. They were all but brawling among themselves – those who were calling for blood, and those who were crying at the travesty.
Then guards came forward and led Jesus, bound, blindfolded and bleeding, up the stairs. They dragged him, and when he fell, they did not stop. When they reached the top of the stairs, the doors opened and they took him inside.
In the courtyard at the front of the crowd, I saw the bare and glistening black shoulders of Malbool. He was looking around desperately, not wanting to let Jesus out of his sight; so unaware of his role in all this, yet willing to give it everything he had because he trusted me. I scanned the guards who had seemingly appeared from nowhere to fill each space between the columns. It was impossible to tell who the agents might be.
Grudgingly, I turned and crept over to the house’s roof. It seemed that all the guards had been ordered outside to control the crowd. There were none posted here. I glided across and found the door that gave access to the upper rooms. The explosion of splintering wood barely made a noise above the crowd.
The hallway was deserted so I quickly made my way up the stairs. From the third floor above the open chamber, I could see a small crowd of scribes, guards and priests were gathered. When I recognised what was going on, it took my breath away.
At the front of the proceedings stood a broad man dressed in a fine, gold-trimmed sleeping robe. He had thick forearms and a smooth, bald head. He looked to be about forty, but the kind of forty forged by years in the military. It could only be Pontius Pilate. Presently he walked over to where Jesus stood and then looked around at the others in the room.
‘Leave us,’ he said with authority. The others retreated through the door.
Pilate held up a cup for the prisoner, whose face was obscured by angle, shadows and hair, but at least the guards had removed his blindfold. ‘Drink,’ Pilate said. I could not tell whether it was an offer or a command.
The man in the once-white robe did not respond, and so Pilate lowered the cup and walked a full circle around him.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘are you, as they say, a king?’ This time, he waited for a response, and when none came, he grew irritated. ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’ Again he waited as I crept forward, unable to take my eyes from the two men standing in the room.
After a moment, the taller man took a pained breath through a dry and cracked throat, a breath that in itself spoke of how he suffered. ‘Is it you who asks me this question? Or do you ask because others have told you it is so?’ came a rasping and broken voice, although its timbre told of it once being rich and musical.
‘Is it me? You have been brought to me by your own people. By the high priest. The very people of whom you say you are king!’ Pilate spoke with a genuine and keen interest, more surprise than accusation in his voice.
‘My kingdom,’ the man began again, ‘is not a kingdom as you imagine. It has no fences, nor walls, nor boundaries. It is not a kingdom of this world.’
‘And yet you are a king?’ Pilate pressed, then sighed. ‘And they want me to execute you, you understand?’
Jesus said nothing.
‘Why do they want this? What have you done? Why …’ Pilate spread his hand around the room, ‘are you here?’
Again Jesus drew a slow breath. ‘I am here, I was born, to bear witness to the truth.’
‘Truth? But what is truth?’
‘All who seek to hear truth, hear my voice,’ the prisoner said, and then spoke no more.
Pilate turned and walked to a table on which his breastplate and armour lay. He placed his cup on the table, then lifted the moulded metal torso up over his head and lowered it, immediately transforming from man to soldier. He tightened the straps and motioned for his gua
rds to take the prisoner back outside. The doors remained open and as they shuffled out onto the top of the tall palace stairs, I could hear the crowd raise its voice once again. Pilate followed and addressed the masses from his balcony.
‘I can find nothing that this man has done wrong. I have questioned him and found no fault,’ he said to the crowd. Immediately there were jeers and it was only when Pilate held up his hands for silence that he was able to speak again.
‘Is this man not a Galilean?’ the Roman Governor asked. From my spot crouched two floors up I could not see the priests as they responded, but I heard them hiss when Pilate said, ‘Then he is King Herod’s subject. Take him to Herod to be judged, Galilee is his jurisdiction. Hand him over.’
And with that, a yank on the prisoner’s chains thrust him forward and he stumbled down the stairs to be led off by the mob. From a window at the far end of the room, Pilate’s wife, Claudia, stood and watched. When her husband came back inside he sat in a small curtained-off chamber and she went to him.
If the accounts were accurate, I had perhaps half an hour during which time Jesus would be presented to King Herod and then brought back here for the sentence.
I did not know if it had been recorded, but King Herod just happened to be visiting from his coastal villa and was in town for just a few days. I knew that he would demand to see a miracle, and when he did not get one he would send Jesus back to Pilate.
Still I could see no agents – although I did not know how to recognise them if I did see them – but I reasoned that if they were going to strike, they had to strike now, before the mob returned. Until they struck they would not reveal themselves, so I had no choice but to stay close to Pilate. Any kind of disturbance here might well cause Pilate to act outside the true course. Who knows how easily the balance is tipped, how easily The Rule of Knowledge is broken?
I slid a ceremonial sword from its wall mounting and took it with me as I descended the stairs.
‘Is it the truth? Will I know it when I hear it?’ I heard the Governor say as I approached the room. ‘Do you know it?’
‘I know it, but if you do not, how can I tell you?’ his wife replied. My eyes scanned the room. Guards were stationed at the outer door, Pilate’s personal escort stood just inside the entrance chamber. All the others were outside.
‘Do you want to know my truth?’ Pilate spat. ‘I have been putting down rebellions in this town for eleven years. Eleven! If I do not condemn this man, Caiaphas will start an uprising. There will be rebellion. If I do condemn him, the man’s followers will do the same. I fear that there will be bloodshed this day that I cannot avoid. Caesar has promised me that if I cannot control this city, the next blood shed will be mine. That is my truth, Claudia.’
I could not see it, but I knew then that they embraced, shrouded in silence. I hid behind a stone bowl of fruit, each piece carved with incredible workmanship, and I marvelled at how much we did not know about the talents of this age. As I crouched, a servant girl came down the stairs carrying a pitcher of water. I sat back and breathed. The girl stopped and spoke briefly with one of the guards, who seemed reluctant to let her pass, but after a word from his partner the girl was waved through. The guards then went outside to remove those who were still jeering in the courtyard.
The guard who had motioned the girl through returned and closed the outer doors behind him. The man’s thickset jaw and black hair gave him a distinctive and unique authority, and it was with horror that I realised I had seen this face before.
The centurion who had first brought me to Rome. Marcus.
I spun and stood in one motion to look through the window above my head. In the room the girl poured water into an earthenware cup held by Pilate. I searched desperately and my hand settled on a stone apple in the nearby fruit bowl.
‘No! Do not drink!’ I screamed, even as the stone fruit sailed through the air, shattering the pitcher and exploding water all over the floor. Pilate and Claudia looked up in astonishment and did not see the woman snarl and draw a curved dagger from beneath her cloak. This time I was too far away. The knife came down with frightening speed, right into the steel breastplate of the Roman Governor who spun at the last possible moment.
The blade glanced off and the woman drew it back for another attempt at the bald man’s neck, but Pilate responded instinctively and lashed out at the woman’s face with a vicious backhand. His blow caught the assassin on the temple and sent her sprawling to the floor, unconscious. Pilate looked around in disbelief and called for his aide.
‘Guards!’
But there was only one guard still alive inside. The outer door rattled with the noise of the others trying to answer their summons, but it was locked from the inside. As Pilate and Claudia came out of their room into the open chamber they were greeted by one centurion, sword sliding from his scabbard and eyes locked firmly on his prize.
Pilate threw his wife behind him as the soldier closed.
Marcus swung his blade as I came out of my roll and raised my sword to meet his.
For a moment in time we were frozen, Marcus not realising where I had come from, Pilate bewildered by what was happening.
The centurion’s eyes locked on mine, his face showing dawning recognition. ‘You,’ he breathed.
I answered by turning my body to knock him on the side of the head with my hilt, but the mercenary rolled with my move and evaded the blow. There was neither time nor need for talk: he was here to kill Pilate and I was here to stop him.
Marcus swung several times, forcing me back. I blocked, parried, ducked and weaved and at the end of the exchange we were no different to when we had started. Still the doors rattled and the calls of the guards outside came through in alarm.
‘Sir! Sir, are you all right?’ Then to another soldier, ‘You, go to the roof, get in that way!’
I smiled at Marcus; his time was running out. He slashed again and the ceremonial sword I carried shattered in my hands. The centurion pressed his advantage and let fly a flurry of blows, but each time I became the angle and the blade sailed by. We moved in a deadly dance with the Governor and his terrified wife looking on. I fought hard to keep myself between Pilate and Marcus. I had to end this.
Marcus swung down towards my back, and I waited long enough to make him commit to the strike. The sword cut through the air and I dropped and spun, my rear leg circling around, my hands touching the ground. My speeding heel caught him on the side of the head, and as I continued my rotation I leaped up with the other leg and drove the instep of my foot across his jaw. The move looked like a ballet dancer leaping and spinning across a stage but it had a far more devastating effect. Marcus stumbled, and I slammed him with my fist, completing the trifecta of blows to the side of his head. Yet still he stood.
He swung again, but this time with less accuracy and I evaded easily. As soon as the blade had passed me, I switched my stance and skipped up to connect my front foot to his face, like a boxer executing a jab. Yet still he stood.
‘You tough bastard,’ I whispered, seeing the tenacity that had assisted his rise to the rank of centurion. My instinct was to follow up with a stomach shot, but the metal breastplate made me think again.
Still, Marcus swung; again, I evaded and punished, and again and again. I stepped in to grab his wrist, ducking under his arm and disarming the Roman as his sword became mine.
He dropped to his knees in front of me and I stood with the sword raised, ready to plunge it deep into his chest. Pilate looked on in horror and astonishment, finally beginning to comprehend that he had escaped assassination by a very narrow margin.
‘This,’ I said, as I stood there, ‘is for Mishca.’ Then, as he stared up at the sword, I kicked his face hard with the ball of my foot, breaking his jaw and sending him sliding across the marble floor on his back.
The Governor and his wife stared wide-eyed at me. I nodded then sprinted for the window.
‘Wait!’ Pilate called, but I was already gone, knowing as the guar
ds filtered into the room that Marcus’s fate would be worse than the death I could have delivered him.
CHAPTER 49
I ran back up the road and stopped as I saw the crowd heading back into the Governor’s palace. I mingled with them, looking for Malbool. The crowd had grown thicker, and searching for the African proved difficult. I was back inside the gates once more jostling for position before I found him.
‘Malbool! Malbool, it’s done. Pilate is safe.’ The tribesman stared at me angrily.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘How can you allow this?’ he growled at me. ‘How can you stand back and let this happen when you have the power to stop it?’ He waved his hand out angrily at the scene in front of us.
I looked into his eyes and saw that they were reddened, his face filled with emotion. He had witnessed the entire procession.
‘You say this man has done nothing wrong? Well, criminal or not, no human should be treated like this. Even in Rome, this public beating would not be tolerated, even for a criminal.’
He had done as I asked. He had stayed close to Jesus and had seen every taunt, every spit, every blow. I looked back at my friend. How could I explain to him? How could I explain that The Rule of Knowledge forbade me from intervening in what I knew had taken place?
‘Malbool, I don’t know how to say this to you—’
‘Saul, this man is beaten worse than a slave. He is dragged through the streets and no one can find anything he has done wrong. Do you not need to interview this man? Is this not the very reason you are here? And right now you have power to stop this and get your inter—’
